


We are but passing trains

by torres



Series: Coffee Shops [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torres/pseuds/torres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernando and Daniel find a place for themselves in Liverpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are but passing trains

It was like finding an old friend, or rekindling a past love.

Daniel had almost forgotten about this place, nestled in a tiny crook off the side-streets of Liverpool’s city square. But when he took a wrong turn on his way back to his car, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a blinking green signage, large windows misted up and a warm, glowing coffee shop behind wooden doors.

Daniel smiled to himself and checked his watch. His parents were waiting for him at his apartment and they travelled all the way from Denmark just for the holidays, but maybe he could spare a few minutes. He was done with his Christmas shopping anyway, and he did tell his mum he’d be home late. Besides, the snow was coming down really heavily tonight – a cup of coffee would really do him some good.

Tightening the scarf around his neck, he jogged to the café. When he entered, the chimes rang above him in a recognizable, little tinkle, and a warm gust of wind welcomed him immediately. He took a deep breath, the aroma of coffee beans and baking pastries settling heavily around him. There was comfort in the familiar and tonight, it didn’t quite feel like he was just a boy barely out of his youth, living for years in a country he had yet to call home.

*

Daniel was browsing through the café’s in-house copy of Rolling Stone’s December issue, busily making a mental note to himself that he really should get around to renewing his subscription to this magazine, when he heard this insistent, irritating tapping noise. He looked around in confusion and annoyance then almost jerked in a fright, as he saw one Spaniard outside, rapping his knuckles at the window pane separating the two of them.

Fernando stared at him in amusement, silly smile playing lightly on a face dotted with too many freckles set on pale, pale skin, and Daniel wondered whether he could almost be gazing back at his reflection.

Fernando pointed to the space on the couch beside Daniel and raised his eyebrows questioningly. A chuckle escaped from Dan’s lips, and pretended to think about it, one hand on his hip. The Spaniard scowled at him and Dan smirked back, daring him to do something about it. So maybe he was intentionally trying to wind him up, but this was worth it – Fernando’s face twisted into a deeper scowl before finally melting into a pretty, petty pout. Dan laughed again then rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he mouthed at his teammate outside, before patting the velvety cushion beside him and motioning him to come in. Fernando smiled again and Dan had to bite back a giddy grin. He had always felt this night held promise – he didn’t know it held serendipity as well.

*

Fernando crossed his arms over his chest and playfully scolded down at Daniel seated on the couch. “You had to let me wait that long outside? It was freezing!” 

Dan kept a straight face, “So?”

Fernando pretended to look offended, but just to be safe, Dan patted the space beside him in reconciliation. The Spaniard shrugged off his jacket and threw his gloves and scarf on the armrest of the couch tiredly before sitting down on the sofa next to Dan.

“You do know there’s still snow in your hair, right?” The defender asked, leaning in so he had an excuse to scrutinize Fernando up close.

Fernando frowned and ran his hand through his hair, but barely got the ice out of his unruly mop. Dan rolled his eyes and – holding his breath – tentatively reached out to brush off the snow for the Spaniard.

The feeling of Dan’s warm fingers brushing lightly over his scalp sent Fernando stammering incoherently. “I forgot my cap in the car. I was only going to the post office to buy some stamps. I’m sending post cards to my friends back in Spain, you see. I didn’t know I’d bump into you and ...and here I am.”

Dan tsked. “You shouldn’t go out there without a hat on.” He let his hand drift downwards just a few inches. “Your ears are cold,” he added softly, letting his finger run over the shell. Fernando brought his hand up to feel, and his skin unintentionally brushed against Dan’s. They both drew back hesitantly.

“I’ll just get myself a hot beverage then,” Fernando said, standing up. Dan checked his watch instinctively, and Fernando bit his lip, asking worriedly, “You don’t have to go already, do you?”

Dan checked his watch again. His fifteen minutes were up a good fifteen minutes ago. His parents were going to kill him. Absolutely _kill_ him and lecture him in front of all his siblings and cousins who were arriving tomorrow and never let him hear the end of it until they all flew out the week after. And yet –

“No, of course not.” Dan said, waving off the question confidently. “I can stay here for as long as you want.”

*

“You got more marshmallows in your hot chocolate than I did.” Fernando said, brows knitted together as he studied his mug attentively.

Dan rolled his eyes and using his teaspoon, scooped a few of the soggy marshmallows from his drink and dumped them unceremoniously in Fernando’s cup. “Happy?”

And the boy grinned shamelessly. “Yes.”

“You know, your English has gotten so much better,” Dan sipped from his drink thoughtfully. “The last time I met you here, we couldn’t even hold a conversation.”

“It’s been a year,” Fernando said, eyes glazing over as he thought back for a second, “And then some.”

“And I haven’t talked to you since then,” Dan pointed out.

“Yeah. What _did_ happen?” Fernando asked, sincerely perplexed as to how they had had such a great beginning that tapered off into, well, nothing.

“I don’t know,” Dan’s face scrunched up as he tried to think back too. “We returned to our normal lives, I guess. I broke my metatarsal and you... you broke club records,” Dan laughed weakly at his wordplay. “And you became so, so famous.” – Fernando blushed furiously – “Not that that’s bad, because you know... I – We’re proud of you.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Fernando whispered to the rim of his cup, cheeks still flushed red. He sipped at his hot chocolate then paused to smile nostalgically, “The last time we were here, I remember telling you...”

“That you were afraid Voronin was a better striker than you.” Dan continued for him before he laughed.

“Hey, in the first months, he was scoring more often than I did!” Fernando protested self-consciously.

“Yeah, and now he’s been shipped to Berlin and you’re a European champion.”

“And I’ve also had five tears in my hamstring, while you’re back in the heart of defence.” 

“Well, things change.”

Fernando leaned back, closed his eyes as he sank in the softness of the well-worn couch. “This place hasn’t.”

Dan nodded and looked around. The place was still quiet – bustling in the morning, dwindling at night – the old coffee maker was still grinding industriously in the back of the counter, the chocolate muffins still looked like bursting puffs of sin. Then his gaze rested on Fernando and the Spaniard was the first to smile, shy and tentative.

“Happy holidays?” 

“Happy holidays.”

*

“What does it feel like, coming back after injury?” Fernando sounded so wistful as he stared outside blankly, touching his hamstring.

Dan looked up from the article he was reading and cleared his throat, “Mostly I was just relieved that I was playing again. But it does get frustrating having to start over. You want to play at your top level as soon as possible but it’s like your body’s moving a split-second behind you.”

“But, you’re starting again. Despite four centrebacks fighting for two places.”

Dan shook his head and pointed out, “I still get rotated for Sami. Carra’s the only one who really owns a starting spot. And when Martin comes back, it’ll get more difficult.”

Fernando cocked his head to the side and studied the defender. “Are you threatened?”

Dan offered him an easy grin. “No.”

“Hm.” Fernando nodded slowly and returned to tinkering with his iPod.

Dan hesitated, coughed. “...Maybe a little?”

And then Dan expected the Spaniard to laugh, judge or rebut. Instead he just asked innocently, “Why?”

Dan took a deep breath. “You know how people say that while Stevie’s the heart of Liverpool, Carra’s the soul of the club? How do you depose a myth like that?”

Fernando didn’t try to interrupt, just sat there and listened, and Daniel felt a little more comfortable continuing, “Sami’s... been here for years and you can say he’s slow or old, but he’s still one of the most intelligent and effective players out there. And Martin’s the cult favourite, the sleeper hit – bought for a couple of million poundsfor temporary cover and then – bam! – suddenly he’s Skrtel the Baby-Eater and Liverpool have their very own Braveheart.”

Dan ripped the corners of the paper napkins and smiled embarrassedly to himself as he finished. “And then, there’s Daniel Agger.”

Fernando gently pried the napkins away from Dan’s hands before they could create a bigger mess. He swept the tiny scraps of tissue Dan tore and brushed them off the table and into his palm. Then, when Dan wasn’t looking, he scooped them all into the pocket of the Dane’s discarded jacket. He snickered discreetly to himself before tapping Dan’s knee to get his attention.

Dan glanced at him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“Well, you’re my favourite defender.”

And Dan stared back at him in utter bemusement. Because he hated being patronised and he despised being pitied. But Fernando was not acting nonchalant or indifferent, sickly sweet or optimistic. He was just quiet and sombre and quite possibly, just maybe sincere.

Now, Fernando had his earphones back on, flipping open the tabloid on his lap, murmuring difficult English words to himself. And he probably couldn’t hear Dan anymore, but that really didn’t stop Dan anyway, so he just blurted out clumsily a “thank you” that had his tongue in knots.

Then from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Fernando’s mouth twitch upwards, but when he tried to get a second look, the boy was just back to reading the papers again.

*

“So, have you settled now?” Dan randomly began.

And Fernando knew the answer to this question because he’s done this many times. It was almost instinctive the way he automatically put on his best smile as he recited the words by heart, “Yes. I am happy in Liverpool.”

But he forgot that this was Daniel, and with Daniel there weren’t just answers to questions but questions to answers, and the Dane didn’t miss a beat when he replied, “But in Spain?”

This wasn’t in the script. The follow-up question should be, “What do you love about the city?” And Fernando would wax lyrical about the people, the football, the stadium, even the weather; if there was enough time, he could throw in a joke about having to get used to the new traffic rules and how he lost a good side-mirror or two along the way. The striker blinked a couple of times as he tried to gather his bearings and process the unexpected turn in the conversation. In the end, he could only answer helplessly, “I-I’m happy here.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dan said patiently, “You seem so happy now. But I didn’t even know you were sad.”

“Life in Madrid had just gotten so difficult,” Fernando said, still visibly caught off-guard.

“I don’t know you,” Dan pressed on carefully, “But I don’t think you would leave just because it’s become so ‘ _difficult_.’”

“I could have.” He answered gloomily, before his mouth set firmly into a straight line and he shook his head vehemently. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Daniel didn’t ask any more questions after that. He doesn’t bring up the early captaincy or the struggles of a one-man team or the rivalry with the _galacticos_ of Real. He doesn’t repeat words thrown around by journalists and critics and pundits, like “too much pressure” and “stunted development.” And that night, he wouldn’t know about boardroom quibbles or Atletico’s debts and he wouldn’t find out about the tabloid stories and the rumours they started. He just keeps quiet and takes in the muted pain in Fernando’s expression.

“I didn’t think you would be so...” the Dane paused as he looked for the right word. “Broken.”

Fernando smirked wryly. “Oh, really? And what did you expect?”

Dan stifled a chuckle and he leaned in to look at the Spaniard eye-to eye. “I just thought you’d be all brand-new and shiny – and kind of perfect.”

Fernando arched his brow and moved a few centimetres nearer. “And you’re disappointed?”

They were so close now, Dan could see the provocation glimmering in Fernando’s orbs. He made sure his tone didn’t waver when he answered, “No. But I am intrigued.”

*

The barista of the coffee shop was a tall, old fellow, well into his 50s, with a kind smile, drooping eyes and more salt in his salt and pepper hair. He came over at about a quarter to midnight, clapping the boys on the shoulders with a tired yet jolly greeting, “Well, boys, I’m closing shop in half an hour. Any last orders?”

Dan and Fernando exchanged glances and simultaneously shook their heads. The barista nodded, “Alright. I’ll just be out back by the stockroom if you two change your mind.”

“No problem, thanks.” Dan answered, waving, while Fernando added politely, “And good night!”

The moment the barista disappeared behind the counter and the swinging door to the stockroom swung close, Dan started fishing out his battered packet of cigarettes from behind his back pocket.

Fernando made a disapproving sound at the back of his throat. “And I thought smoking wasn’t allowed in public.”

Dan shook the box and a couple of sticks fell out. He took one and twirled it around his fingers, “It doesn’t count if no one sees you.”

“I see you.”

“But you wouldn’t tell on me,” Dan grinned, his lips held uneven by the fag placed in between his lips, “Would you?”

Fernando murmured mischievously as he sipped on his now cold beverage, “I could if I tried.”

Dan smirked back. “Even if I bribed you with a stick?” He asked, holding out his packet of Dunhill. The Spaniard eyed it carefully, chewed on his bottom lip, before resolutely shaking his head with a sigh.

“I quit.”

Dan teased. “Weakling.” He lit his cigarette and purposefully blew the smoke in Fernando’s direction. The Spaniard’s face scrunched up as he coughed and looked away.

“What are you smoking?” Fernando demanded, fanning the scent away before it stuck to his hair and clothes.

“Reds.” Dan answered, taking in a deep breath again and closing his eyes as he relished the feeling of nicotine filling his lungs again. “Have you tried these?”

Fernando shook his head. “I only ever smoked menthols and lights.”

Dan shot him a lopsided grin, holding up the cigarette and tapping the excess ash into his empty mug. “You should definitely try this.”

“But I swore never to smoke a cigarette again.” Fernando pointed out.

“You can always cheat.” Daniel replied matter-of-factly. He moved closer to the striker on the couch until their knees bumped against each other’s and Fernando froze. Dan brought the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. Then, with gentle fingers, he tipped Fernando’s chin up and met his lips delicately. Slipping out his tongue to coax the Spaniard’s mouth open, Dan simultaneously exhaled the smoke slowly so Fernando could take it right back in.

Fernando felt Dan pull away, and he let the smoke fill his throat before blowing it out again. The nicotine was so sharp and concentrated, his head spun at the newness of the taste. When his eyes fluttered open, the yellow pin lights overhead suddenly seemed harsher and brighter.

“Like it?” Daniel asked, face placid and smile warm.

“It’s strong. Dizzying,” Fernando answered, licking his lips experimentally – they tasted dry like tar and tobacco but faintly sweet like chocolate and something else he wouldn’t name right now. “But I like it.”

*

“Do you think we’ll ever be friends?” Fernando wondered as they ducked back out into the cold night, hands shoved in pockets and faces nestled into scarves.

“What are you talking about?” Dan hit back as they carefully paced down the slippery asphalt, navigating their way back to the city square. “We _are_ friends.”

“In there, we are,” Fernando said, jutting hit thumb back at the coffee shop, whose lights were now closed and whose shades were being drawn. “Out here, we’re not.”

“That’s because you only ever hang out with your Spanish friends.”

Fernando’s jaw dropped. “I hang out with Stevie!”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget?” Dan replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Captain Fantastic and his Wonder Boy. Start your own comic strip, why don’t you?”

Fernando shoved the defender, not caring that Dan ended up stumbling into a puddle of rain water. “Yeah, and you used to only hang out with Steve Finnan.” He wasn’t able to stop himself when he spat out, “You were in love with him and you know it!”

If Dan was surprised, he didn’t show it. He only asked dryly, “Why do you say that?”

Fernando bit his lip and looked away, not expecting such a defensive reaction from the Dane.

Dan sighed. “He’s left and that’s all there is to it.” He hunched his shoulders and proceeded wordlessly, only to be drawn out again by a soft touch to his arm. He looked up and Fernando was gazing back at him, studying him.

“Don’t tell me you’re broken too?” He asked, his voice lilting gently, his smile delicate and his eyes light even under the overcast sky. Daniel forgoes his reply, but Fernando doesn’t prod the issue because he knows.

Entwining his gloved hand around the defender’s arm, they continued walking back to the city centre side-by-side, this time in more comfortable silence, and suddenly, Daniel’s smile comes easily again.


End file.
